


By Any Other Name

by SRLoftis



Category: Newsies (1992), Newsies - All Media Types, Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: F/M, Trigger warning: abortion
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-25
Updated: 2016-09-25
Packaged: 2018-08-17 06:27:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8133707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SRLoftis/pseuds/SRLoftis
Summary: Strikes, jealousy, tragedy, hardship. What's the one thing Rose needs to get through it all? Turns out it's Spot Conlon. And she hadn't been expecting him at all. Spot doesn't get attached and he doesn't need anybody telling him what to do. But Rose. She's a whole 'nother story.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, this is my first Newsies fic, and I went for a weird thing with the language here. Let me know if it's terrible and jarring, or whether maybe it works a little? Thanks. Enjoy.

Spot Conlon wasn’t in de bis’ness o’ formin’ attachments. 

-

She ‘membered the first time she saw him. She knew who he was right off, o’ course. She’d spent ‘nough time in Brooklyn ta reco’nise ‘im. The cane, the red suspenders, that mystery key hangin’ ‘round his neck. Couldn’ be no one else. Even the slingshot tucked into ‘is belt gave it away. But then he weren’t ’zactly tryna hide hisself away.

She hadn’ bin expectin’ him to look at her wit’ them piercin’ blue eyes though. She was jus’ a common whore. Sure, he was jus’ a newsie, livin’ day by day like ‘er, but he was also Spot Conlon. Spot Conlon had a reputation ‘round these parts. She was more’an a bit scared of ‘im ‘cause o’ that.

She should’a looked at the floor when he turned ‘is attention to ‘er.

“Yer new. What’s yer name?" 

‘New’ wasn’ ’zactly the right way to put it. “Rose.” She couldn’ look down now, so she stared right back, quirk of a smile on ‘er face, jus’ as her Madam’d taught her. He looked away an' nodded t’wards ‘er. 

“Yeah, she’ll do t’night.”

Well fuck. She’d caught Spot Conlon’s eye. She wasn’t sure‘at was such a good thing, ‘specially seein’ she was real good at ‘er job, an' Spot wasn’t known ta spread hisself around. He’d made a deal o’ that Portia girl leavin’ last week. They hadn’ expected ‘im back, he’d kicked up such a fuss over’t. But ‘parently he was game ta pick a new girl, an' Rose weren’ so sure she’as ready for it. Spot weren’t known ta do a lot o’ sharin’, neither.

The Madam gave ‘er a look, one Rose reco’nised all too well. _Do well t’night ‘r yer out._ She couldn’ afford ta lose the bis’ness, an' the brothel neither. Spot’d bin a regular o’ Portia’s fer a’least a year now, an' when she’d decided she’d had ‘nough of it all, Spot hadn’ liked it too much, no matter how sick she might’a been.

That had Rose worried.

-

“How long ya bin here?” Spot piped up as he kicked his boots off an' pulled his suspenders down off his shoulders from where ‘e was sittin’ on the bed.

Rose jumped a little an' turned back t’wards him. She hadn’ bin expectin’ no conversation out of ‘im. No wonder he chose his girls so careful, an' stuck to ‘em. 

She composed herself. “Wit’ Madam Florence, not too long. But I bin in the business a good while.” She grinned at him, real saucy like, an' made her way to ‘im. Time ta show him that good time Madam’d demanded of her. “I can take _real_ good care o’ you though, if that’s what yer worried ‘bout.”

She stood in front of him an' gave him her _eyes_ , her famous eyes, an' he stood up, face to face wit’ her, jus' as she’d intended. She could make ‘em do anythin’ wit’ the _eyes_. Her hands found their way to his chest an' she begun ta unbutton his shirt real slow, bringin’ her lips to his neck, layin’ kisses on ‘im an' all down his chest as she undressed ‘im.

B’fore long, she was kneelin’ in front o’ him, undoin’ his belt. He yanked his slingshot out o’ her reach, before it fell from its perch, an' placed it on the slowly growin’ pile of ‘is clothes. She worked off his belt an' his pants, spendin’ her time gettin’ him worked up. This’as her way, an' it was a special somethin’ in this bis’ness, she knew that much.

Once she got him good an’ excited, she worked her way back up his body an' moved to pull the leather strap wit’ that strange key over ‘is head. He grabbed her wrists to stop her an' looked her dead in th’eye. She felt scared an’ thrilled all at once.

“That stays on, darlin’.” An’ all of a sudden, he was whippin’ her ‘round by her wrists an' throwin’ her on the bed, all the power back in ‘is hands. It didn’t hurt, but it startled ‘er all the same, an' she gasped in shock.

“Now.” He crawled ont’ the bed an' on top of ‘er, cradlin’ her neck in one hand, menacin’ but oh so gentle. “Rose, ‘s it? Tell me Rose, how old ‘r ya?”

“Seventeen,” she answered, instinctual. She could pass fer it.

“Yer lyin’,” he said, ever so nonchalant, his grip on her neck tightenin’ a little. Not painful, but sure was uncomfortable. She had a feelin’ Madam wouldn’ care so much if this one got violent wit’ ‘er. “Age?”

She was afraid o’ him. It pro’ly showed on her face fer a split second, when he tightened ‘is grip, but she wiped it away an' grinned. “Fifteen.” She’d never told no one ‘er real age b’fore, even her Madams, but it seemed ta please Spot.

“Good.” He loosened his hand an’ caressed her neck, like he’d never threatened her wit’ violence. Maybe he hadn’. “Ya like bruises, Rose?”

She gulped an' steeled herself fer whatever pain he’as ‘bout ta inflict on ‘er. Regardless of her own preferences, an’ she di’n’t fool herself he really cared for ‘em, Madam Florence weren’ so keen on bruisin’. Marked the merchandise, she said.

He s’prised ‘er again, lowerin’ his mouth to her exposed collarbone an' suckin’ what she knew ‘d’be a hickey into ‘er porcelain skin. She weren’ s’posed ta let ‘er clients do this neither, but somehow she knew this’d be an exception, an' Madam’d forgive ‘er for it.

As he devoted ‘is attention to the spot, she felt ‘is hands learnin’ her body, feelin’ its curves, becomin’ ever so familiar. He began to untie her corset, still kissin’ at her neck. She stopped tryna predict him then. She’d no idea what he was doin’, but it was nuttin’ she’d ever saw b’fore.

-


End file.
